“That’s all.”
“By your leave, ser?”
Cerryl rose. “Let me know if any problems come out of this.”
“Won’t be none, ser. Not a one.” Fystl offered a half-bow, then turned and departed.
Cerryl hoped there wouldn’t be, but hope often didn’t match reality. He’d seen that often enough, especially with Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall.
Cerryl looked at the short stack of papers he had put aside for a few moments to read On Peacekeeping, then leafed through them. He hadn’t understood that another aspect of the drudgery of being a section Patrol mage was writing reports. Isork had mentioned reports, but understanding and doing were often two separate things. Cerryl had to write down any incident where the Patrol took someone into custody or where he used chaos to turn someone into ash or anything else he thought that Isork or the Council should know about.
Cerryl understood, belatedly, the stack of scrolls Isork had been reading when he had first met the Patrol chief. Slowly, he picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. For a while, he’d decided he’d keep what amounted to a journal—jotting down notes as things happened throughout the day, then writing down at the end of his duty those matters that still seemed worth reporting.
His eyes flicked across the day’s jottings…before the incident with Gerlaco.
…brought in Kealf, accused of stealing apples. Kealf said under truth-read that Vilo wouldn’t take his copper because he was from Sturba. Vilo agreed to take copper and pay a copper in damages to the Patrol.
…one Azorf stole three loaves of bread. Caught by Nuryl’s patrol. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty.
…vagrant who would not give name stole purse from Seorlica, consort of the cooper Huntyl. Huntyl struck with barrel stave and hailed patrol (Sheffl—leader). Truth-read vagrant, committed theft. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty…
Cerryl took his eyes off the notes and began to write, hoping he wouldn’t have to detail turning too many peacebreakers into ash.
XXXI
CERRYL TOOK A large helping of creamed lamb from the Meal Hall’s serving table and a full mug of the amber ale. At most of the tables around the room were apprentices, faces he did not know—except for the two redheads, Kiella and Kochar. The exception was the big circular table near the Meal Hall entrance, where Faltar, Lyasa, and Heralt sat, almost through with their meal. Lyasa waved to Cerryl, and he headed in their direction. He sat down and grinned as he noted the crumbs around Faltar’s plate. “A touch of lamb with your bread?”
“I was too tired to go out, even with creamed mutton.” Faltar grinned back. “I’m not a highly paid Patrol mage. I have to watch my coins.”
“Someone told me that even junior mages could go out every night,” Cerryl replied.
“He was wrong.”
Heralt and Lyasa laughed at Faltar’s woebegone expression.
“How does being a Patrol mage compare to gate duty?” Heralt—the curly-haired young mage originally from Kyphrien—took a sip of ale.
“Harder. Much harder,” mumbled Cerryl between bites of lamb.
“You get off in midafternoon. You been over at the trader’s place?” asked Faltar. “With your favorite healer?”
“No…walking the southeast section. Only way to get to know it well enough.”
“By yourself?” asked Lyasa.
“As a Patrol mage, it wouldn’t look all that good to have an escort off-duty.” Cerryl’s tone was dry. “I stay out of shadowed alleys and the taverns.”
“He’s still acting like an apprentice who has to learn everything,” Faltar told Lyasa.
“He’s also bringing in more coins, Faltar,” she replied. “There might be some relation between the two.”
“Never,” said Faltar. “I couldn’t imagine walking all over the city. My feet ache enough after guard duty.”
“So does my head,” admitted Heralt.
“Speaking of headaches.” Lyasa turned to Cerryl. “Did you hear about Jeslek?”
“Besides his making mountains all over the middle of Gallos?”
“No. He’s going to be High Wizard. We just heard.”
Cerryl nearly choked and ended up covering his mouth to contain his coughs.
“You got a reaction there.” Faltar grinned. “One of the few times I’ve seen Cerryl surprised.”
Cerryl finished coughing and cleared his throat with a small swallow of ale. “I’m not surprised that he’s High Wizard. I always thought he would be; but not nearly this soon.”
“He marched up to Sterol’s quarters and came down with the amulet,” Faltar said.
“Kinowin has to approve it—and all the Guild,” pointed out Heralt.
The other three looked at the curly-haired mage.
“I know. No one will oppose him,” Heralt admitted.
“He’s already wearing the amulet,” pointed out Lyasa.
You mean Anya is. Cerryl shook his head at the vagrant thought. Why had he thought that? Jeslek was far more powerful than Anya, as strong as she was in chaos handling.
“I don’t understand it,” Faltar said quietly. “Derka says he’s going back to Hydlen. Hydolar, actually.”
“Derka’s leaving Fairhaven?” asked Cerryl.
“Sterol’s moving into Derka’s chambers, too,” Lyasa said. “That’s what Kiella told me.”
“I don’t understand,” added Heralt. “When Sterol was High Wizard, Jeslek kept his quarters as far from the Tower as possible. Now Sterol’s going to be right under Jeslek.”
Cerryl lifted a mug of the hall ale, definitely flat in comparison to that of The Golden Ram, and took a sip, then another.
“Three floors of solid stone,” said Lyasa.
“Nothing compared to mountains,” countered Faltar.
“Jeslek won’t be there that much anyway,” suggested Heralt. “He’ll have to do something about Gallos and Spidlar.”
“That’s probably why Sterol let him have the amulet,” suggested the black-haired Lyasa.
“But who will be the other overmage, to take Jeslek’s place?” asked Faltar. “Does anyone know?”
“Anya would love that,” offered Lyasa.
“I haven’t heard,” said Heralt. “Would Sterol take it?”
“No. He’d have to support Jeslek,” Faltar said quickly.
Cerryl’s eyes went to Faltar. That hadn’t been Faltar’s idea, he suspected, but said nothing.
“Cerryl? You aren’t saying anything.”
“What is there to say? Jeslek returns from Gallos, where he has created an entire range of chaos mountains. Suddenly, the honored Sterol relinquishes the amulet and recommends that the Guild approve Jeslek as High Wizard. No one knows who will be the new overmage, except that it’s unlikely to be Sterol. What can a lowly mage such as I add to that?”
“I think you just did,” said Lyasa.
Cerryl shook his head. “I said earlier that I always thought he’d be High Wizard. He just got there sooner than I thought.”
“Like you,” suggested Lyasa. “They say you’re the youngest Patrol mage in generations.”
Probably all waiting for me to fail…could that be it? Could Jeslek have agreed to it to see if I’d fail? Cerryl wanted to shiver. It certainly fit the way Jeslek operated. The new High Wizard set impossible tasks for mages he didn’t like and then punished them when they failed, if they didn’t die at the task. All the while, he quietly supported those less able who backed him. Seldom was there overt fighting among the White Order, just positioning to cause others to fail or to be killed in ways not traceable to any mage. “That’s only talk,” Cerryl protested. “Besides, I have to stay a Patrol mage.” That’s going to be the hard part.
“You’ll do fine on the Patrol,” said Lyasa.
Cerryl hoped so. He stood.
“Where are you going?” asked Lyasa, grinning. “To a certain trader’s home?”
“No. I ha
ve some reports to write and some things to read.”
“Work, work, work…” Faltar’s tone was light.
“Sometimes,” Cerryl admitted. “Sometimes.” He didn’t look forward to reading more of On Peacekeeping, but he needed to finish it and learn it before real trouble arrived. With Jeslek back in Fairhaven, that could happen any time. Any time.
XXXII
WITH SHIPS FROM Recluce in every ocean and every gulf, each accompanied by a Black weather mage, the lands of Candar and their traders had no choices but to agree to trading with the Black Isle on terms most favorable to Creslin.
First to accede were the western lands, those where the Legend of the dark angels was held in higher regard; from Rulyarth the Tyrant of Sarronnyn sent a half-score of ships, laden with all manner of goods, and these the Tyrant bestowed upon Megaera as a consort gift, and prevailed with those gifts that Recluce grant more favor unto Sarronnyn.
From Southwind also came tribute, and copper, and scented oils like those that graced the consorts of the Emperor of Hamor, and hardy steeds bred in the pitiless sun of the Stone Hills.
Even the silver-haired druids of Naclos, they sent silksheen and the dark lorken wood prized by the Black crafters, prized though it could not be used by those of the way of prosperity and light, and the precious stones found nowhere but in the hidden depths of the Accursed Forest.
So began the alliance of the dark isle with the lands beyond the Westhorns, for even unto this day those whom the Black Isle has exiled in disfavor are not sent beyond the Westhorns, but unto those lands in less favor of the Blacks who fear to reject them lest the mages of Recluce turn the very seas and skies once more against Candar.
Over the generations has Recluce sent its questers and pilgrims to Candar, and some, even most, have found Candar pleasant and peaceful and to their liking, and they have remained and adopted the path to light and prosperity.
Thus, those who leave Recluce prove by their very value to Candar how admirable qualities are disparaged by the Black Isle and how little those who follow the twisted path of the dark order know of light and the true guide to understanding the world, and even what lies beyond our heavens…
Colors of White
(Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)
Preface
XXXIII
A LARGE FLY buzzed slowly around the open doorway of the duty room, then settled through the grayness of dawn onto the dull-polished stone of the wall in the corner of the room by the single high and barred window. The faint breeze from the open window bore a chill that hinted at the approaching winter.
Cerryl stood and looked down at the flat desk-table, then at the unlit lamp, before calling, “Zubal!”
The thin messenger boy in red appeared in the doorway and bowed. “Yes, ser?”
“If anything comes up, I’ll be spending the early part of the morning with Kesal’s patrol. You know the area they’ll be patrolling the next two eight-days?” According to Patrol rules, no patrol could spend more than three eight-days in a patrol area or return to that area until it had been rotated through the other nine areas in the section. Each year half the patrols in each section were rotated into another of the four geographical sectors of the city.
“Yes, ser. That’s the potters and the tanneries and the masons.”
“Good. You’ll know where to find me if any of the other patrols need me.”
Zubal’s dark brown eyes dropped to the floor as he bowed. “Yes, ser.” He eased out into the corridor to wait by the messenger’s stool.
Cerryl stepped from behind the table, his eyes taking in the wooden document boxes, the stacks of paper, and the quill holder. Then he headed for the assembly room, passing the silent Zubal, who stood by his stool in the corridor.
One patrol—the one headed by the wide-mustached Fystl—was already filing out of the assembly room.
“Good day, ser,” Fystl said with a nod.
“Good day, Fystl.” Cerryl stepped into the assembly room, where the conversations—or briefings—dropped off, and glanced toward the patrol standing by the speaking stones. “Kesal? Might I have a word with you?”
“Yes, ser.” The wiry patrol leader crossed the room and joined Cerryl in the corridor, his brown eyes meeting Cerryl’s, questioning.
Cerryl took in the clean and smooth white uniform, the crimson patroller’s belt, the brown hair sprinkled with gray, the carefully trimmed beard, and the rectangular and honestlooking face. “I’ll be accompanying you for a time this morning. Zubal’s the messenger, and he knows that.”
“Accompanying us, ser?”
Behind Kesal, the other patrol leaders and their patrols filed out into the dawn.
Cerryl shrugged. “I can’t learn the section sitting in the building, and the people can’t learn about me, either.”
“Ah…yes, ser.”
“Kesal, I’m not here to do your job. I’m not here to look over your shoulder and tell you what to do. I am here to support you, and to let people know that I do.” He nodded toward the assembly room. “Introduce me to your patrol.”
Kesal nodded, clearly uncertain about a young Patrol mage who wanted to accompany a working patrol, then turned and walked through the open double doors of the assembly room toward the four men who remained in the room.
“Mage Cerryl will be accompanying us this morning,” Kesal said blandly. “This is Chulk.” The brown-haired and young-faced patroller nodded. Cerryl noted the wide red scar across the back of his large left hand.
“Bleren.” Bleren was squat and white-skinned, with wispy strawberry blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile.
“Olbel.” The swarthy, olive-skinned patroller nodded, the curly black mustache waxed firmly in place, black eyes sparkling under coarse black hair.
“Pikek.” The last man in the patrol—short-cut mahogany hair and square sideburns—favored Cerryl with an unvarying smile that did not include his pale gray-green eyes.
Cerryl didn’t know quite what to say. He’d met all the patrollers in his duty section once, but briefly, and he’d learned the names from the duty rosters, but only a handful of faces fit with names, and none were in Kesal’s patrol. After a moment, he said, “On and off, I’ll be going with every patrol for a time.” Then he nodded to Kesal, deciding against any more explanation.
“Let’s go.” Kesal stood aside.
So did Cerryl.
The four patrollers filed out of the room and the building, followed by Kesal. Then Cerryl walked beside Kesal as the patrol turned eastward, along the south side of the cross street from the avenue—the Way of the Tanners, a street Cerryl had traveled more than a few times as an apprentice to Tellis the scrivener. Although Arkos had been the only tanner Tellis had used, Arkos had competitors—Murkad, Viot, and Sieck—as well as others farther out the street to the east where Cerryl had not gone back then.
Chulk walked down the north side of the street while Olbel trailed Kesal and Cerryl. Pikek and Bleren were out of sight, checking the alley to the south of the street, mainly to ensure it was clean and clear of rubbish.
“How did you get to be patroller?” Cerryl asked.
“I was a lancer, but I got tired of riding all over Candar. That’s a young man’s game. I heard that the Patrol needed men, and I walked in on my home leave and asked. Mage Huroan said I could try, and I’ve been with the Patrol ever since. I know I’ll get fed. Get to sleep in my own bed and sure live longer.”
“Do all the patrollers come from the lancers?” Cerryl crossed the next side street, glancing southward along the row of still-closed doors as the orange glow of dawn sifted out of the east and over the city. The next block of the Way of the Tanners held various leatherworking shops—that much he recalled, although his memory was prompted by the faint scents of leather and tanning reagents.
Kesal rubbed his nose before answering. “No. They have to have had some duty, though. Infantry, gate guard, that sort of thing. We’ve even got a couple of mercs. The hard thing is le
arning the city. That’s always hard, ser, at first, for the younger patrollers.” Kesal smiled. “After ten years, now, doesn’t matter where I patrol, I know people. Not all of them, but enough know me. That’s good because when they rotate patrol leaders people with problems can still come to me.”
Cerryl wasn’t sure that Kesal’s familiarity was necessarily that good. Then, how could any patrol system be perfect? If the patrollers became too attached to a patrol area, then they’d probably excuse too much because they liked people and wanted to be liked. If they weren’t familiar enough with an area, then while little would happen in view of the patrollers, they’d also never find out the worst of the peacebreaking that happened in alleys and behind blank stone walls. “You can’t be too friendly, and you can’t be too distant?”
Kesal nodded. “When they get to know you, folks’ll tell you things that they don’t want happening around their dwellings. That’s if you don’t try to be their friend. Don’t want the Patrol knowing too much, you know.”
Cerryl could understand that. Yes, he could. He’d certainly avoided the patrols, even as an apprentice. Then, as a chaos wielder who was the son of a renegade killed by the Guild, he’d had good reason. He suppressed a smile, one of rue and pain. It almost makes no sense, that you are a White mage, when they killed your father…except those who did had no choice…except that you never knew him…except that he wanted to be a White mage…except that the only way to survive was to become a mage. And now you understand why what you feared must be. After a moment, he added to himself, Mostly.
“Morning, Beykr.” Kesal nodded to the stooped white-haired man who had propped open the door to a small shop graced with a wooden boot above the doorway. The walls beside the door were windowless.
“A good morning it is, Patroller Kesal.” Beykr paused, then added, “And to you, too, ser mage.”
“Thank you,” Cerryl answered. “I hope it brings coins to you as well.”
Beykr nodded politely before reentering the apparently dark shop.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 18
